


Mine

by indigo_carter



Series: Supernatural Fluff [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Again, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4026997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigo_carter/pseuds/indigo_carter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: There literally wasn’t one. It just…happened.</p><p>Character: Dean Winchester</p><p>Author: Frankie (spnsmutscribe)</p><p>Reader Gender: Female</p><p>Word Count: 2,100</p><p>Warnings: FLUFF</p><p>A/N: This isn’t a request. Again. I’m really sorry about all this writing which isn’t based on any requests, but I’m finding smut so hard to write at the moment. I’m hoping that by practising with ‘normal’ writing it will get easier again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine

The hunt had gone badly. So badly, someone had died – a kid, the person you were trying to protect. In reality, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, and in the end you had ganked the motherfucker killing the fifth-graders at the local elementary, but that wasn’t good enough for Dean. He’d driven away from the town at breakneck speed, hitting 80 as you passed the town signs, and he hadn’t let up until he slammed on the parking brake in the bunker’s garage. He stormed from the car, and you shuddered in the backseat. Squeezing Sam’s shoulder and pressing a kiss to his temple, you slid from the back, closing the door softly behind you, before trailing after Dean. Pausing just inside the bunker, you heard the tell-tale chink of ice being dropped into a glass, then swearing, then the thud of Dean’s boots as he made his way to the liqueur closet in the library. You closed your eyes briefly, but the pale face of the boy stood out in bright relief against the darkness of your lids, so you opened them again, setting off after Dean as he meandered through the halls.

Once you were sure he was safely in his room (even resorting to checking to see if he’d locked the door – he had) you slumped against the wall and let your muscles relax. Tears pricked the backs of your eyes and tightness encircled your throat. Shaking yourself, you headed for your own room and changed into a loose pair of shorts and a tank top, grabbing a towel from the pile on the dresser, and heading into the gym. Sam would be reading or winding down with a run. Dean would drink himself into a stupor. You would sweat out the adrenaline until there was nothing left but exhaustion.

Slamming your gloved fists into the punch bag suspended from the ceiling, you didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t see Dean step through in socked feet. Didn’t notice he was there until his hands slid around your waist and pulled you away from the bag.

“Dean.” You resisted, pulling away from him. “I need to do this.” He grunted a little, whiskey lying heavy on his breath, and eased his grip. You turned slightly to look at him. His eyes were glassy, both from alcohol and from guilt, and you felt yourself soften. Tension had always hung heavy between you, but it always took the prompt of alcohol before either of you did anything about it. You shook your head slightly, then began tugging your boxing gloves off.

“Don’t stop for me, Y/N. I’m in the way, I’ll just…” He moved to leave the room.

“Don’t go.” Hanging your gloves from their hook, you tiptoed up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, fingers gripping his hips. “Don’t go unless I can come with you.” He rumbled something in reply, too quietly for you to hear. “What?” He cleared his throat and rested his hands on your wrists.

“Why would you want to be with me?” Dread and sadness pooled in the pit of your stomach, and you pulled your arms even tighter around him.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I’m a mess, a fuck-up.”

“We’re not going down this road again, Dean.” There was a warning in your voice, enough that he twisted in your arms to frown down at you.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said! You make mistakes, but that doesn’t make you bad. You make tough choices and sometimes you choose the wrong one, but that doesn’t make you a fuck-up. None of what’s happened to you is your fault!” You could feel strain entering your voice, your pitch rising through the octaves, your volume too loud for the confines of the room. Pushing him away, you backed up a couple of steps. “You’re not bad Dean! There’s nothing about you which is evil, that’s just fucked up! I don’t understand why you can’t see that.” You trailed off, wondering if you’d gone too far, your eyes locked on his.

“I can’t see it because I close my eyes and I see the kid who died on my watch. I see the friends who’ve died because of me. I see all the crap I’ve caused-”

“But think about the people you’ve saved.” Your reply was quiet, but loud enough to stop him. “Think about the families kept together because of the sacrifices you’ve made, Dean. Think about all the children who sleep better at night knowing you and Sam are out there to kill the monsters under their beds. You’re not a bad person,” you took a step forwards and lay your hands on his forearms. “You’re so, so good, Dean. Strong,” you rose up on your tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Selfless,” another kiss landed on his neck. “Defiant,” on his temple. “Good,” the final kiss landed on the tip of his nose. You let yourself back down onto flat feet and gazed up into his face. “I don’t know how to fix this, Dean.” You shrugged and his hands wrapped themselves around your hips. He tugged you towards him, pressing his face into your hair and pulling you flush against him.

“This helps.” You felt a smile creep unbidden across your lips.

“Sticking your face into my sweaty hair helps?” He shuddered with laughter and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Holding you helps.” He whispered it. “Knowing you feel like that helps.” You crinkled your brow and stroked your fingertips over his shoulders.

“Dean…”

“Can we just…put something stupid on the TV and just sit for a while, please?”

“Of course, if that’s what you want.” You breathed your response, unable to deny the prickling anticipation building in your stomach and sparking along your skin.

“It’s what I want.” You screwed your face up and pressed it into the nape of his neck.

“Come on, then.” Pulling away from him, you caught hold of one of his hands, interlaced your fingers with his, and towed him through the bunker and into your room. For a moment, you wondered if this was what he’d meant, but he closed the door behind you and let go of your hand to look at the stack of box sets and films beside the TV opposite your bed. You perched on the edge of the bed, arranging your stack of pillows into a kind of nest, and digging into the mini fridge which served as a bedside table for a couple of beers.

“This do?” He held up the DVD case of your favourite film, and you grinned, nodding. Slotting it into the TV, he picked up the remote and crawled up to meet you in the nest of pillows and cushions at the head of the bed.

To start with, the two of you just sat side by side, pressed against each other so that you could feel him in a line from shoulder to ankle, and you had to keep squeezing your eyes closed in case you were imagining things. You barely needed to watch the film – you’d seen it so many times you could recite it – but it gave you something to do other than focus on the solid presence of Dean beside you. He shifted slightly as the main character said something stupid to do with their love interest, and you felt him laugh. Shaking your head, you squeezed his knee.

“Stop it, you’re ruining the film!”

“Shh!” He pressed his nose to your temple and shushed in your ear, his warm breath fanning over your cheek and down your neck, making you break out into goosebumps. “Are you cold, baby?” he whispered it, his nose still pressed to your temple.

“Mmhmm.” You didn’t want to risk the moment by talking, and you felt him wiggle his arm free from between you before resting it about your shoulders, tucking you into his side.

“Better?”

“Mmhmm.” This time it wasn’t a case of risking the moment, you were just too overwhelmed to speak. You sniffed as quietly as you could and were overcome by the smell of whiskey, tobacco and the musk which was uniquely _Dean_. His fingers settled gently on your waist, his arm at a slant down your back, and you were acutely aware of all the places your body was touching his.

You sat that way for a while, each pretending to be engrossed in the film, while intimately aware of the other. His fingers were stroking over your hip, his free hand tucked between his thighs, and you studiously kept your hands to yourself, too scared to touch him. The way you were laying – legs curled up to one side, your torso pressed against his side, your hands gathered in your lap – was surprisingly uncomfortable and you wriggled to ease the cramp forming in your side. He instantly let go, shifting away from you.

“No, no, no, come back.” You caught hold of his hand as it slid around your back. “I was cramping, just let me…” you adjusted your position, tucked a pillow behind your back, and slid your arm behind his, slipping your hand into the pocket of his jeans, your palm resting on his hip bone. He waited a moment, decided you were settled, and pulled you in even closer. Neither of you was aware of the TV anymore, the dialogue and music fading into a backing track to your warring hormones and common sense.

You closed your eyes, resting your head on his chest, the steady thudding of his heart a comforting pulse in your ear. His fingers were caressing your hip again, and you curled your fingers inside his pocket. Gentle strokes landed on your hair, and he tangled the strands around the fingers of his free hand, lifting and stroking and dropping them repeatedly, tucking them behind your ear. You pressed your head harder into his chest, one leg sliding over his as you moved yourself against him. The gentle touches left your hair and he stroked the pads of his fingertips down your cheek, exploring the structure of your brow, cheekbone and jaw, the pad of his thumb running over your lower lip. You wrapped your free arm around his middle, deliberately pushing up the hem of his shirt to lay your palm against the warmth of the skin of his tummy.

“This is nice.” He rumbled quietly, his fingers never ceasing in their comforting movements over your skin.

“It is.” You risked smiling up at him and found his eyes were already locked on your face. His thumb ran over your lower lip again, and you chased it with the tip of your tongue, not thinking about how it could be taken until you noticed his pupils blowing wide and the catch in his breathing. You pushed your hand further up his body, cupping his ribs, anticipation making your heart beat faster.

“Y/N…”

“Dean?”

“Would it…would you…can I?” the sight of Dean Winchester lost for words made you smile, and you lifted yourself slightly to bring your head on a level with his.

“I wish you would.” He cupped your skull in one hand, his fingers tangled in your hair, and gently, everso gently, pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Another followed on the tip of your nose, and you let out a quiet sound. His lips landed on yours, softly, and you found yourself blinking back tears. He pulled away as the saltiness slipped down over your lips and encountered his tongue.

“Woah, babe, what?” You blinked at him, bemused, the tears continuing to fall.

“I have no idea.” Your voice was choked and you cleared your throat a little as his thumb stroked away the tears from your cheeks. He quirked his eyebrows at you and smiled. “Bit overwhelmed.” You sniffed, hard. “Sorry, that’s gross.” Blushing, you ducked your head away from him, but his fingers caught your chin and tilted it up.

“I hate it when you cry, but this is kinda cute.” He pressed another kiss to your lips and butterflies stampeded through your stomach. “Is this ok?” He whispered it against your lips, and you responded by kissing him again.

“This is more than ok, Dean.” Giving you one last kiss, he manoeuvred you back into your position, with your ear pressed to his heart. You closed your eyes and tried to wipe the smile from your face, not knowing that above you, Dean was looking down with a matching grin. His fingers traced letters on your hip.

_Mine._


End file.
